Dial L For Laundry
by sienna27
Summary: Universe A: Offshoot. Missing day in the Girl'verse. Early season 4. Hotch accompanies Emily to the laundry room. Falls in order after "Pretty Girls, Pool Parties & Pot Bellied Pigs"


**Author's Note:** I know, two nights in a row. Shocker!

This is an offshoot, of an offshoot :) Really, just a little snippet of an evening alluded to in "To Rossi's House We Go." Emily telling Hotch about her troubles in the laundry room, and him then volunteering to come over and sit with her the next time she had to go down there. That's this. And for placement in the overall Girl'verse, early September of Girl proper. I see it as the Wednesday after Emily met Jack. And perhaps on Girl repost, it'll actually get shoved in there :)

FYI: This is kind of a Seinfeld'esque fic, in that nothing particularly special happens. It's just a night in the laundry room :)

* * *

**Dial L For Laundry**

Emily's eyebrow went up as she turned to look at Hotch standing next to her in the elevator.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go back up and get you a book or something?"

It was Wednesday evening, and per their discussion from the previous week about the 'pests' that she'd been dealing with while washing her clothes, Hotch had come over to escort her to the laundry room. And by escort, his intention was not simply to 'accompany' but to scare the ever living CRAP out of any and every male chromosome that might cross her path that evening.

Emily was just hoping that no blood would be drawn.

But beyond that . . . especially if it turned out that they were totally alone down there . . . she was expecting for things to be kind of boring. After all, the _primary_ activity for the evening was simply watching wet clothes spin around in a circle until they were dry clothes. And she'd just taken note that Hotch had come over to her place empty handed. Not even so much as a single case file tucked under his arm. Which was kind of weird.

For him anyway.

Hotch's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Why would I want to bring a book with me, when I could just talk to you?"

Feeling a faint blush touch her cheeks, Emily reached over to catch his hand.

"That's sweet," she squeezed his fingers, "thanks."

The man always knew exactly what to say to fix a lousy day. And overall it actually had been kind of a crappy go round. She'd just found out that her mother was ditching their long planned family vacation for some sort of political 'flesh press' instead.

Typical.

And then the boys were just driving her nuts at work. And work was of course, was work. That was never a good time. Especially on new consult days. She'd spent most of the afternoon reviewing autopsy photos of dead children. So it was just nice to have Hotch over for a few hours to help keep her from getting wallowy and depressed.

Well, more so.

"It's not sweet," Hotch murmured with a frown while slipping his arm around Emily's shoulders, "it's just a fact." He kissed the top of her head.

"That's why I'm here tonight."

All right, _specifically_ he was there to put the fear of God into any potential jackass that might stumble across her path in the laundry room. But on the more _general_ point, he was there because he liked spending time with the woman to his right.

He didn't need any extraneous activities to fill out those hours.

So as the elevator doors slid open, he pushed her laundry bag back on his shoulder, and tucked her more closely under his other side.

"And as long as I'm here," he continued softly as they stepped out of the small car and into the wide open hallway of her building's basement, "are you going to tell me why you're mopey today? And don't try to deny it. It was obvious when you came in this morning that you were down about something."

And yes, that was actually the THIRD reason that he was there that night . . . to figure out what had happened to her smile. It hadn't been seen almost twenty-four hours.

He was ready to put out a BOLO.

Emily bit her lip, her fingers clenching into the cloth bag holding her detergent and dryer sheets.

"It was just the boys," she responded softly, "they were arguing about something stupid, and I didn't have the patience for it today."

"Yes," Hotch paused their forward momentum to look down at her, "but WHY didn't you have the patience for it today? What made them more irritating today than yesterday? Or any other day for that matter?"

Not to say that he wasn't fond of Derek and Spencer . . . of course he was, very much so . . . but, they did tend to "bicker." Not generally real 'fighting' just more, two COMPLETELY different personality types stuck spending fifty to sixty hours a week attached at the hip. And if one of them happened to go off on a lengthy tangent, on an obscure topic, at some point the other . . . okay, Morgan . . . was likely to make a 'remark.'

Or three.

Usually by the second comment, Reid had taken notice of the potshots being lobbed in his direction.

And then they were off and running.

Honestly, Hotch couldn't see how Emily sat there with them all day, _every _day, without the occasional blow up. But no, aside from an occasional finger shake . . . or threat to Derek's life/testicles . . . mostly she took it all in good humor. Diffusing any genuine tension before it became a real disagreement.

The woman had the patience of a saint.

Usually.

Emily bit back a sigh.

Though it was on the tip of her tongue to just tell Hotch what was really wrong . . . how _bitterly_ disappointed she was to find out that yet another family vacation had been cancelled for yet _another_ of her mother's political events . . . it didn't matter how old she got, it still sucked to be second best . . . after a moment's contemplation, she decided to keep that one to herself.

It was just too embarrassing.

Your other own mother would rather spend time shaking hands and eating dry chicken with strangers, than spend a week with the child that she hardly ever saw.

Who wanted to admit to _that_?

So even with Hotch giving her that quarter inch raised eyebrow of his . . . the one that indicated he was very on to whatever misdirection she was huffing in his direction . . . she just shrugged it off like she had no idea what the real problem with her mood could have been.

"I don't know," she shrugged, "Blood sugar, hormones . . . the rotation of Venus. Could have been anything. It just kind of threw off my day."

Hotch stared down for a moment longer.

He was about ninety-seven percent sure that Emily was leaving something out of her response . . . that something else had happened to upset her . . . but he also knew that it wasn't right to push the point if she wasn't ready to talk about it yet. When she was ready, he would be there.

And she knew that.

So in the meantime . . . he took a breath . . . the least that he could do was just cheer up her mood generally. And to that end, his eyes crinkled slightly as he looked down at her.

"If it's the blood sugar thing, if you'd like I can go get you some ice cream, you know that CVS on the corner has a broad selection of Ben & Jerry's."

To Emily's surprise . . . and amusement . . . Hotch finished his completely benign sentence with a lewd waggling of his eyebrows. And despite her generally crappy mood, she found her mouth quivering in response.

"Sorry," she snorted, "are you actually trying to _seduce_ me with ice cream, Agent Hotchner?"

"Yes," Hotch nodded seriously, "I'm going to ply you with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream, and then put on some silk pajamas while I play the best of, Barry White." Then his eyebrow quirked up inquisitively.

"That'll work, right?"

For the first time in over a day, Emily not only smiled . . . but then she started to laugh. And seeing the dimple Hotch flashed her in response, she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"Any other day," she huffed while pulling back, "that flawless seduction technique might have worked. But I think tonight," her remaining amusement faded to a soft smile, "I think I'll just take the laundry escort."

Again, the man always knew the perfect way to cheer her up. And as Hotch kissed her temple and tucked her close again while murmuring an amused, "the night's still young," she actually did start to feel vaguely 'cheery.'

Which was a far cry better than simply 'not severely depressed.'

That was as far as her mood had improved when the elevator doors had first opened.

And after another twelve paces, they arrived at the laundry room itself. It was a fairly large, fairly sterile looking environment with walls painted something akin to ecru, and half dozen (each) washers and dryers lined up back to back in the center of the room.

As they entered, Emily gave a polite wave and smile to the little old lady sitting in the corner. The woman responded in kind. By Emily's somewhat vague elevator recollections, the woman lived a floor or two below her . . . and fortunately she was the only other person in sight at the moment.

Hopefully things would stay that way.

Because Emily had been thinking that it would be nice if Hotch's visit could just be a 'normal' friend visit. Not a '_hi, I'm a friend of Emily's and as such, here to rip your throat out_' visit.

But those were generally the kind of friends that she had.

Not that she loved them any less mind you, but sometimes . . . she slowly exhaled as Hotch rubbed his hand down her back . . . a quiet evening was nice too.

And once they'd staked out two of the empty washers . . . not too difficult, at least half of the machines had their covers up . . . while Hotch began undoing the string on her laundry bag, Emily pulled the little zip lock bag of quarters from her pocket.

After she had the coins loaded . . . and the water running . . . while she was measuring out the detergent, Hotch immediately started filling the machines.

And seeing him carefully sorting her lights and colors into the two separate washers, Emily's eyes crinkled.

Again, he did make it nearly impossible to be depressed.

"Hon," she put down the cup to reach for the bag, "thanks, but you don't have to actually _do_ my laundry. The company's enough."

"No," Hotch simultaneously shook his head and pulled the bag slightly closer to his chest, "it's fine. I've actually always liked doing laundry. You get a sense of, well," he bit his lip for a second, "accomplishment." He dropped a pair of her knee socks into the load of darks, "you know, you have a tidy, finished work product." Then he huffed slightly, "we don't get that."

She looked down at the sudsy water for a moment before nodding.

"No," she murmured back, "no we don't."

For a second she was lost in her own world . . . thinking again of dead children and absentee mothers . . . but then she felt Hotch bump her hip. When she looked up, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

"Don't be sad," he whispered, "it's laundry day."

Again, despite her depressive gene's best efforts, Emily found her eyes crinkling. Then she nodded.

"You're right."

And he was right, though . . . unbeknownst to him . . . she did actually have a little reason to be sad. But she didn't _want_ to be sad, she just wanted her mom to not love her second best.

Was that so much to ask?

Realizing what a LOADED question that was . . . even if she was just posing it to herself, she was bound to find heartache in the answer . . . Emily quickly pushed the thought away. The important thing was to just keep busy until she shook off this miasma that kept settling over her. So to that end, she decided to just focus on Hotch.

He would be a distraction.

And after she'd leaned up to give him a kiss in kind, and in thanks . . . measure for measure, moments like this were how kept each other sane . . . she poured out a half cap for each washer, of the blue liquid detergent that she'd brought downstairs.

Then Hotch closed the lids . . . the machines began to swish . . . and the two of them shuffled her laundry 'accoutrement' over to the battered little couch in the corner.

Ordinarily she avoided that seating option . . . when she was alone she preferred the single plastic chairs on the other wall . . . but with Hotch there with her, the area felt safe. And also she welcomed the close contact.

With him anyway.

And after they'd tucked her laundry bag down by their feet, she slumped against his side. Her head she placed on his chest and her arm she wrapped around his torso.

He immediately reciprocated by slipping his arm around her shoulders.

"If you want to take a nap," he kissed her temple, while murmuring, "I'm here."

"Mmm," she murmured back non-committaly, "I'm actually thinking about Barry White and ice cream."

The air was a bit dry down there, and as such, suddenly ice cream seemed like a really good idea.

"Unfortunately," Hotch snorted, "I left my Barry White album back at the record store, twenty-two years ago. But," his eyebrow rose up as he looked over," if you'd like, I can go get you some Ben and Jerry's?"

Emily's nose twitched and scrunched and then finally she looked up at him.

"Please. But not Cookie Dough tonight. Fudge Brownie if they have it," she pouted, "I want chocolate."

"Okay," he pulled his arm away, patting her knee as he stood up, "Fudge Brownie it is." Then he shot her a half a dimple.

"Back in ten."

Emily's expression was soft as she watched Hotch walk out of the laundry room. And her gaze stayed locked on the open doorway even after he was gone.

But then she was startled by another voice . . . the old woman that had been sitting in the corner.

"He's very handsome."

Her head whipped around in the other direction.

"Excuse me?" She asked in surprise.

"Your husband," the woman smiled, pausing in the act of folding her towel to gesture towards the door, "he's very handsome. Reminds me of my Bruno at that age, God rest his soul."

She added the last with a quick sign of the cross, and Emily's brow immediately creased in sympathy.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she leaned forward a bit, her elbows settling on her knees, "did your husband die recently?"

Thinking back, she vaguely recalled seeing the woman with an older man once or twice . . . but she couldn't remember the last time that was. But she traveled so much . . . and people kept their own schedules . . . so it was impossible to keep up on things like that. Really she hardly knew any of her neighbors outside of run-ins here in the laundry room, or at the mailboxes.

"Yes, two months last Thursday," the woman responded sadly, "we'd been married fifty-three years." The woman's gaze shifted off to the side.

To the door Hotch had walked through a few minutes before.

"He used to get me ice cream too," she added softly, "he was so happy when they put in that drugstore, said it saved him gas driving down to the market. That was the last thing he bought me the day before he died," her lips curved in a wistful smile, "a container of strawberry ice cream. It's still in the freezer . . . I can't bear to eat it."

Feeling hot tears prick her eyes, Emily bit down on her lip.

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

Even with just those few words, it was impossible not to feel the sharp pain of this woman's grief . . . and yet somehow she also felt strangely envious of it as well.

To love someone like that.

What was that even like to spend fifty YEARS with another person? And even after all that time, he was still going out to buy her ice cream. God . . . she quickly tried to blink away the moisture from her eyes . . . she was seriously going to start crying!

And seeing the older woman giving her a watery smile, Emily quickly took a deep breath to push down this unexpected . . . somewhat bewildering . . . emotional reaction to this stranger's death. Particularly bewildering given that she dealt with strangers' deaths every day of her life.

_So why was this one affecting her so much?_

"Thank you for your sympathy dear," the woman tipped her head, "but you don't have to be sorry. We had a very nice life, but everything has to end eventually . . ." she sighed, "I'll be seeing him again soon enough."

She was quiet for a moment . . . again, wistful was the word that came to Emily . . . and then suddenly she cleared her throat.

"Well," the last of her hand towels were dropped into the little basket, "that's it for me."

The woman was halfway out the door, pushing her little laundry cart, when a thought occurred to Emily.

"Oh," she called out, "and he's not my husband. He's just a friend."

It might have seemed a silly thing to feel the need to correct, but she just didn't want to give the woman the wrong idea. That somehow her relationship with Hotch could be compared to the lifelong commitment that this woman had shared with her husband.

It seemed disrespectful.

The woman turned back, a little twinkle now apparent in her dark eyes.

"No," she shook her head, "he's not. Enjoy your ice cream, dear."

Then she turned back and disappeared out the door.

Emily sat there, staring in confusion, listening to the little wheels of the laundry cart squeaking down the corridor. Then she leaned back with a shake of her head.

_What a funny thing to say._

And the comment continued to perplex her . . . and distract her . . . as she sat there, tapping her fingers, waiting for Hotch's return.

Then suddenly she heard footsteps in the hall, and she sat up straight.

"Hotch," she called out warily, her hand instinctively brushing over the holster on her hip.

Though she generally felt safe in her building . . . the men who had been bugging her were harmless, just nuisances . . . she never really let her guard down anywhere.

Most especially when she was off alone, in a deserted basement.

But then she heard the familiar baritone bounce back.

"Yeah, it's me."

Her hand fell back to her thigh. And after a few more echoey footsteps, Hotch appeared in the doorway carrying two white plastic bags. Her eyebrow inched up.

Both bags looked kind of full.

"Did you leave some ice cream for the other customers?"

Hotch gave her a faint smile as he continued over to the little couch. Then he shook the bags.

"One pint of Fudge Brownie for you, one pint of Mint Chocolate Cookie for me, two bottles of water, a box of plastic spoons, some salsa and tortilla chips because I know once you get back upstairs you'll be looking for those too, and a travel pack of wet wipes, because," his lip quirked up, "well, we know the because."

When he'd first walked into the store to the buy the ice cream, Hotch had (foolishly) simply picked out the pints of Ben and Jerry and walked up to the registers. But then as he stood in line for a second he flashed on the whole, 'ice cream eating process' . . . aka 'the beauty that was watching Emily eat.'

And the beauty, beautiful though she may be, was most definitely a messy eater. He was pretty sure that something was going to be spilled on something.

Hence the wet wipes.

And of course the salsa was a no brainer. If she was looking for ice cream . . . and she was obviously fighting some sort of depression . . . then salsa was going to be the next item on her 'must have' list.

It was her go to depression food.

Emily shot Hotch a faint grin as he sat back down next to her.

"You know me so well."

"Profiler's instincts," he responded with a light crinkling of his eyes, "they do come in handy on occasion. And so" he leaned forward to place the bags on the little table, "have you had any other visitors since I've been gone?"

Though the whole purpose of his visit was to accompany her to the laundry room, he'd known that the shopping trip was only going to take about ten minutes. And that's literally ALL it had taken.

The CVS was within spitting distance of her parking lot.

"Nope," Emily shook her head as she began pulling out the ice cream containers, "all quiet on the southern front. Funny though," she paused in unwrapping the Fudge Brownie, her lip quirking up in a wistful smile, "that old lady that was in here, she said you looked like her husband." She turned to Hotch with a little pout.

"He died recently."

His brow darkened.

"That's too bad."

"Yeah," she sighed, "it is too bad. But she told me that they were happy, and so . . ." she swallowed and bit her lip, "I didn't have to be sad. It was okay."

She fell silent, thinking about living that kind of life. And about that pint of strawberry ice cream . . . and how it was still sitting untouched. Would she ever find a love like that?

One that lasted DECADES.

"Hey," Hotch nudged her arm, "are _you_ okay?"

Emily's head snapped around.

"What?" Then she blinked and nodded, "oh yeah, just . . . thinking. That would be something, wouldn't it? You know, to be with somebody for literally fifty years," she shook her head, "God, how do you even begin to find that person? How many years do you keep looking? Is there some kind of sign to tell you, 'this is the one'?"

Though Emily knew that Hotch had no secret insight into the mysteries of the universe, still she couldn't stop the questions from tumbling out. As though he was going to have answers for her. Because if he'd had the answers . . . she thought with a faint huff . . . he'd be off with _his_ 'great love' and not sitting down there in the laundry room with her.

Feeling a faint bit of melancholy wash up . . . he was thinking of his failed marriage . . . Hotch's gaze dropped down to the scratched linoleum.

"I think maybe," he responded softly, "it doesn't happen for everyone. We don't all get the storybook ending. That said," his gaze shifted over to Emily . . . she was watching him closely, her fingers clenched on her thigh, "that doesn't mean that we can't still find other ways to be happy."

He reached over to pick up her hand . . . he laced their fingers together. And when her gaze shot up to his, he gave her a sad smile.

"I don't say it enough, but," he whispered, "you give me a lot of good days Emily. You make me happy. And Jack makes me happy. And I think that you two, well," he swallowed over the faint lump in his throat, "if that's what I'm going to have for the next fifty years, I think that might be enough for me."

His relationship with Emily wasn't romantic, but it wasn't ordinary either. She brought something special to his life.

Something beautiful.

And if it worked out in the end that he never found another 'special mate' . . . that Haley was going to be the last love of his life . . . and he just spent the rest of his days eating ice cream with Emily and watching Jack grow from a boy to a man, he could live with that.

And he could live with that just fine.

Feeling hot tears burning her eyes, Emily blinked and sniffled. And though she wanted to say something clever and pithy . . . because that's what she usually did when confronted with a heavy moment . . . Hotch had actually left her speechless.

And as she choked back a sob, she pulled her hand free from his. Then she turned and threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank you for that," she sniffled in his ear before her voice broke, "I really needed it today."

Hotch's expression softened as he pulled Emily to his chest.

"I'm just speaking the truth," he murmured with a kiss to her soft cheek, "my world is a better place because you're in it."

Feeling Emily suck in a shuddering breath . . . and realizing then that he was about to make her start crying, not his intention . . . he slowly rubbed his hand along her back.

Time to lighten the mood.

"Of course my world is also slightly more chaotic with you in it," he continued in the same soft tone, "but we'll let that one be our little secret."

Emily started to laugh even as one of the hovering tears finally spilled over. Then she leaned back slightly to give Hotch a watery smile.

"Given how many times you've rolled your eyes at me in public," she said with a little giggle, "I think that's probably the worst kept secret, ever."

"Well," he jiggled his head, "perhaps." And when she smiled, he winked and reached over to fix the little smudge of mascara under her eye.

"Now," he continued with a light brush of his fingertip along her cheek, "eat your ice cream before it melts."

Her lip quirked up just as she blinked away the remaining moisture in her eyes.

"'K."

Then Emily shifted back on the little couch, her fingers unconsciously trailing along Hotch's thigh even as she reached out with her other hand to pick up her container of Ben & Jerry's. A second later he handed her one of the spoons out of the little box.

Her eyes crinkled as she took it from his hand.

"Thank you."

And then she waited while Hotch opened his own ice cream and leaned back against the couch. Once he was settled, she shifted over and against his side.

She sighed in contentment. Or . . . what turned out to be . . . _temporary_ contentment. It wasn't until after she'd finished her third bite of the slightly melty ice cream . . . it was a bit warm in the laundry room with the dryers going . . . that she nudged Hotch with her elbow.

He turned . . . she pouted . . . and without a word, he fed her a bite from his carton.

As she closed her eyes and swallowed . . . it was REALLY good(!) . . . she heard him from her side.

"Do you want to trade?"

With her eyes still shut, she smiled and nodded.

"Yes, please."

Hers was good, but his was way better. And when her eyes popped open, she saw him giving her a soft smile.

"You're lucky that I like you so much," he huffed while switching the cartons in their hands. In response she leaned up to give him a . . . slightly sticky, slightly minty . . . kiss on the cheek.

"I am lucky," she whispered. "And if I didn't tell you already, thank you for coming over to sit with me tonight."

"Yeah well," his eyes crinkled, "thank you for letting me come over to sit with you. Dave had called just before you did. He wanted me to come out and meet him for, quote 'a steak, a scotch and a smoking hot redhead'."

Seeing Emily's eyebrow inch up in surprise, Hotch rolled his eyes.

"Apparently his date's sister flew into town unexpectedly, and he was expecting that I would take out the sister."

More like 'pawn off' the sister, but Hotch didn't think that phrase would go over well with Emily. That would sort of imply that a woman could be considered an object for 'material bartering.' Which obviously she was NOT. But seriously . . . Hotch grunted to himself . . . Dave was completely pawning off the sister!

Emily tipped her head.

"Why didn't you meet them? I know you don't much care for Dave's setups, but," her eyes dropped down as she dipped her spoon into his just traded pint of ice cream, "sounds like you would have at least gotten a free steak out of it."

Hotch shrugged dismissively.

"Eh," he rolled his eyes, "I can buy my own steak." Then he tipped his spoon towards her carton. "You all set? Or do you want anything else?"

Given that he couldn't exactly explain to himself why he'd been so viscerally opposed to that proposed outing . . . Dave's assurance that the woman was a former underwear model did nothing to sweeten the pot . . . Hotch was really hoping that Emily would let it go. He hadn't wanted to go on a date.

That was that.

Emily looked over at Hotch with a raised eyebrow.

It was kind of amusing how he thought that such a blatant non-sequitur would distract her from the topic at hand . . . his clear 'disdain' for spending a couple hours out with Dave a couple of pretty, big busted, girls. And given that it was a Dave outing, the 'pretty and big busted' were no brainers.

So to speak.

And though Emily understood . . . and appreciated . . . how much Hotch hated dating in general, it kind of seemed like the 'guy code' would have mandated him assisting Dave with the pickle he was in. Hmm . . . she huffed to herself in amusement . . . apparently Hotch did not follow the standard 'bros before hoes' creed.

Not really a shocker there.

And as thanks for demonstrating once more . . . even if he hadn't intended to . . . that he was no ordinary 'bro, Emily leaned over and kissed his cheek again. Then she leaned back against his side.

"I'm good on the ice cream front," she murmured, "thank you though."

"Okay," he whispered back while tipping his head over to hers, "just checking."

And . . . topic dropped.

Excellent.

/*/*/*/*

They stayed down there for another hour and a half. Through the remaining spin cycle of the washing machines, and then an hour for the dryers. Hotch scared off two of Emily's pests . . . who deigned to say hello to her . . . with a simple look. Both men immediately mumbled something about forgetting their quarters, and hurried back out of the laundry room.

Neither one returned while they were down there.

When the clothes were finally done, Hotch helped Emily fold everything and carry it all upstairs again. As he was standing in her front hall, about to say goodbye, she looked down at her watch, and then back up to his face. She was staring at him so intently, that his eyebrow quirked up.

"What?"

But she quickly shook her head, trying to paste on a faint smile, "nothing." Then she stepped forward and reached up to give him a hug.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she murmured while turning her face into his neck. And feeling his arms come up to give her a tight squeeze, she . . . unexpectedly . . . felt her earlier melancholy return.

He was leaving.

She sucked in a deep breath. In part as an effort to steady her emotions, and in part to breath enough of him in to tide her over.

To keep a little piece of him with her, though the rest of him had to go.

But then . . . just as she was about to loosen her grasp, she couldn't hold onto him forever . . . he whispered in her ear.

"You pick the movie. I'll go down and get my bag out of the car."

She pulled back, looking up at him in surprise.

"How did you know that's what I wanted to ask?" She asked in bewilderment.

Just a moment before, when she'd checked her watch, she'd so badly wanted to ask him to stay . . . but she'd bit her tongue. Afraid that she would look pathetic somehow. After all, it was only Wednesday.

_What kind of loser needed a security blanket to get through a Wednesday?_

One of Hotch's hands fell to her hip, while the other came up to touch her cheek.

"Your eyes are sad again."

Then he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I'll be right back," he whispered, "lock up behind me."

Emily nodded as she followed Hotch to the front door. And when he reached back to squeeze her fingers, she gave him a little smile. Then he stepped out into the corridor and she closed the door behind him.

She immediately slid the dead bolt.

And for a moment she stood there, leaning back against the red metal, a faint whisper of something brushing along her subconscious. Then she shook her head and took a deep breath.

She had no idea what it was.

And anyway . . . her lip quirked up as she started back down to the living room . . . she had other things to do besides stand around and ponder the secrets of the universe.

It was time to pick out a movie. Maybe something with Nicolas Cage . . . a faint spot of warmth filled her chest.

_That would make Hotch happy._

* * *

_A/N 2: I said it wasn't very long, and it's not going anywhere. I just had that image of them riding the elevator down together and I had to type it up. Then it literally sat there for like a year, with the elevator as the whole story, until the rest of it popped into my brain. And that's why you never toss your incomplete drafts, kids. Just shove 'em in a folder!_

_The thing with her mom cancelling vacation, if it sounds familiar, Emily FINALLY tells Hotch that story later in Girl. One of the 'gala' chapters. Gingerbread Girl, perhaps._

_Otherwise, that's all folks :)_


End file.
